


i wear this crown of shit upon my liar's chair

by shadowofpride



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Introspection, Songfic, hurt by nine inch nails, just my interpretation on griffith's thoughts while he was being tortured, spoiler alert for golden age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 08:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21443137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowofpride/pseuds/shadowofpride
Summary: What was your name again?Ah, yes, Griffith, the white hawk of the Midlands.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	i wear this crown of shit upon my liar's chair

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, guys! This is the first time I'm writing for Berserk, despite it being my all time favorite manga since years ago. Griffith's my favorite character ever, and I love over-analizing his character (I have a whole theory on Griffith's character in the golden age), and I've always thought Hurt by Nine Inch Nails (my favorite band, we're full of favorite things here) suited his character well in the time span that goes from when Guts leaves the Hawks to right before the Eclipse, so I had an epiphany this morning and wrote this in a frenzy. This could very well suck, but I wanted to post it anyway. Please, leave a comment, you'd make my day.
> 
> Karma

_I hurt myself today _

_To see if I still feel _

It doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

You think, or, rather, you don’t, while your feet walk a path you know all too well.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

You think, sinking your fingers in this young girl’s skin, her hips, thighs, breasts, as her voice, bathed in pure pleasure, calls your name, over and over.

What was your name again?

Ah, yes, Griffith, the white hawk of the Midlands.

You hug tightly on your own arms, nails buried in the skin painfully, sitting on the edge of the royal bed.

She’s sleeping, while your silent scream tears the heavens.

_I focus on the pain _

_The only thing that's real _

_The needle tears a hole _

_The old familiar sting _

The whip tears your skin open, whole chunks of meet falling painfully from all over your once perfect body.

Your skin, once pure ivory, now exposes pulsing muscles, as blood hardens on the edges.

Yet you never scream.

Why would you scream, when you already felt the worst of pain?

_Try to kill it all away _

_But I remember everything _

_Oh, what an empty shell is this body_, you ponder.

Yet when your eyelids flutter to a close, to get some rest, all you see is _him_.

His smile, his eyes, his way too big of a sword, slashing trough all enemies in your name, his back, while he abandons you for good.

_What have I become _

_My sweetest friend _

_Everyone I know _

_Goes away in the end _

Oh, where are you, white falcon?

What has become of you?

Is it really you, hanging from the ceiling, in the castle dungeon?

You, the mighty, beautiful, intimidating captain of the Hawks, you, who once commanded the attention of everyone in a room, even that of the king, who could wrap anyone around his finger, you, cruel falcon, who ordered the death of countless men, never personally sullying your hands.

The immortal falcon of light, whose skin has been torn apart, whose tongue has been cut, whose tendons have been ripped, has now no wings to fly, all his white, white feathers came raining down on the pavement.

What is left of you, white hawk? Nothing, but the memory of your past grandiosity, of your dream, that crown, that castle standing fierce on top of that high hill, now so out of reach, of a friend, his sword clashing with yours, and his back turned on you.

_And you could have it all _

_My empire of dirt _

_I will let you down _

_I will make you hurt _

And you, foolish falcon, would’ve given everything for him. Your life, the blood pumping in your veins, the air of your lungs, your heart that you just ripped from your open chest, your dream, the castle on the high hill.

And you did.

You gave it all for him. The pieces of your shattered dream laying under your battered feet, mingling with your fresh blood and flesh on the floor.

All for him.

And you’re left with nothing, but blinding, violent, primal rage.

You curl your fingers into a fist upon your shackles, nails tearing the skin open once again, while gritting your teeth until you’re bleeding.

_Oh, my sweetest friend, how would I hold your neck between these hands._


End file.
